


Bedrest

by afearfulbride



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Fingering, M/M, Minor Injuries, PWP, Robot Sex, dont tell dr ziegler, mild kinky slut-shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26802007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afearfulbride/pseuds/afearfulbride
Summary: mccree breaks his dominant hand on a mission; fortunately, he's got a back-up. this is shameless mcyatta smut please enjoy!!
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Tekhartha Zenyatta
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	Bedrest

“Babydoll, you’re killin’ me here.”

It had been four hours since Jesse’s triumphant return to Gibraltar: four hours of debriefings, medical examinations and administration, following up on a gruelling two-day stake out and chase. Once could never claim that Winston did not run a tight ship, even if it meant that by the time Zenyatta found McCree in the infirmary he looked as if he had run a number of marathons just to get through the doors.

And yet, he still seemed to think he was in any condition to receive a very particular kind of hero’s welcome. Truly, his willpower was remarkable.

Little by little, the shaggy mane of McCree’s hair fell back into place from where he’d raked it back in some melodramatic show of his distress, hiding the crag in his brow.

“I just wanna fool around a little. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that, is there?”

Zenyatta continued to smooth the sheets around him. “I believe you sound foolish enough as it is, given how many bones you have broken. Perhaps,” he continued archly, “the painkillers are clouding your judgement.”

“But-”

“If you tried to make love to me you would undo all of Dr. Ziegler’s hard work in putting you back together. And we cannot have that, can we?”

He paused, then risked a glance back to Jesse’s face- and wished he hadn’t. His expression could have melted permafrost. What cosmic entity had seen fit to give him such dark, puppy-soft eyes, anyway?

Zenyatta relented, just a little, and settled beside him. “I have missed you tremendously, love.” The deluge of increasingly heated messages they had exchanged over the past couple of days surely spoke to that; patient or not, there was still a part of him that resented the wait. “But if I touch you, I know you will get carried away, and then we will be found out.”

And there it was, curling at the edges of McCree’s mouth, subtle but steadily becoming less so: a smile.

“Oh, I think I could work with that,” he answered casually. The murmur of shifting bedding betrayed the movement of his arm as it snaked its way around Zenyatta’s waist. “Why don’t _I_ touch _you_?”

The correct response, he knew, was to tut and whisk himself away from McCree and his wandering hands before his silence was taken for tacit agreement. But even Zenyatta could not deny that they did things to him, and all the more ardently for the knowledge that they shouldn’t have. Little by little, he allowed himself to be tucked back against McCree’s side- the one with only a single broken rib, he noted wryly.

“Relax,” Jesse murmured. His breath was sauna-hot against his neck. “That’s it. I’m not gonna do anythin’ crazy. Just let me take care of you...”

It was as if McCree knew how to activate some secret, encrypted protocol within his body with just a touch. Zenyatta’s head lolled back, weak as a kitten for the slow crawl of hands along his torso that stroked here and tugged there, experience guiding them to just the right nodes and wires...

Something cracked and McCree nearly hit the ceiling. To his credit, he did not yell. Much.

Once the shock had worn off and his lover seemed over the worst of the pain, sat cradling his hand with a wretched look, Zenyatta sighed.

“A sprained wrist?”

“Broken. Some heavy tried to get me to drop my gun,” McCree admitted. “That son of a bitch was _heavy._ ”

“Jesse-”

“No, no, no, wait just a second-” A full-body wince wracked his body as he resettled, panicked, around Zenyatta, as if he could make the wounded cage of his body any more secure with enthusiasm alone. “Alright, so maybe this hand’s out of action, but how about-”

Crushed as Zenyatta was against the man’s chest, it was difficult to see just what he was proposing- until he felt it. Metal on metal at his waist. Body-warm, crudely thick-fingered, pulling at the waist of his sweatpants. His prosthetic arm.

Zenyatta had never been _unaware_ of Jesse’s mechanical arm, of course, even in the earliest of their coupling. It had simply been a fact of his body, like the dark fur on his belly or the lines at his eyes, as real and as loveable as the rest of him. But whenever Jesse touched him, it had always been the human hand that cupped and probed and stroked, feeding the insatiable hunger his lover had for the secrets of his omnic body; he had to know how he felt around his fingers, how wet, how hot... often he did not even bother with a prosthetic at all while they were together, and that vulnerability always made Zenyatta’s heart sing, knowing with what he was being entrusted.

But this… Jesse’s hand cupped the smooth plating between his legs and his synth skipped just seconds before the panelling retreated to unveil his valve.

Feedback surged through his processor, almost-new, almost alien, but overwhelmingly _pleasurable_. With his memory so thoroughly occupied it wasn’t until he heard McCree laughing that he realised he’d been making any sound at all- plaintive little huffs, coaxed out of him while he squirmed.

“ _That’s_ more like it,” Jesse breathed- then chuckled as he crooked his finger just so and Zenyatta keened at the sudden, shameless breach, so much less forgiving than an organic hand upon him. “Jesus, you’re hotter’n hell already, Zen, and we’ve barely even got started. You’d think I never fucked you before.”

“I-it’s-” hard to think, outright impossible to concentrate, as if the slow grind within him were pushing out all thought, “- unexpected! It has been so _long-_ ”

“Don’t even try and tell me you never play with yourself,” McCree crooned over his shoulder, “‘cause I’ve seen it for myself.”

A practised elbow found its way into McCree’s stomach, just hard enough to earn a grunt. “You a-are teasing me! You know exactly what I mea- _ah_ -” 

The sudden stretch of a second finger slotting alongside the first caught Zenyatta off guard, sensors scrambling to accommodate a sensation he had not anticipated so quickly, until the discomfort bloomed into a pleasing burn. “With an omnic,” he managed. “With a hand like…!”

A hand like McCree’s. It was hardly advanced as prosthetics went, but that scarcely seemed to matter anymore. How long had it been since he felt a sympathetic touch? His own hands, real or otherwise, scarcely counted, not like this- _this_ was impossible to ignore, the sensation of silicone rolled beneath blunt steel, spread around one thick digit as it butted up against the node flaring at the apex of his valve. Exploring, as if for the first time, eased by the sudden gush of slick that spilled around the man’s fingers. 

Zenyatta chirruped. No human touch would heat like this with his body, as if the idle thrust and curl and grind against sensitive inner walls were an inescapable extension of his own hardware. The sound, too, was different, the soft slap of skin on silicone replaced by something harsher and far less forgiving, reminding him in every squelch of his own neediness.

Dimly the omnic was aware of McCree at his side, and the filthy, rumbling litany of praise and groans and curses that he pressed to his neck.

“Listen to _that_ . Fuck. You like that, Zen? You miss bein’ fucked like this? Bet you were _real_ cosy with those Shambali friends of yours. Bet they couldn’t keep their hands offa you.” 

Each accusation only seemed to tear away at his restraint word by indistinct word. He was clearly imagining it, keyed up as much by the image as he was the embarrassed little gasp Zenyatta managed in response.

“Bet you begged ‘em for it. Spreadin’ this cute lil’ thing-” another swipe across his clit, another finger scissoring him open, his human hand fumbling between them for Zenyatta’s and pressing it to the considerable bulge beneath the hospital blankets, “- for anyone, huh? Can’t blame ‘em, though. You got one hell of a pussy.”

Already the most basic of his systems were lagging, overwhelmed as McCree burned through the last free chunks of his processing capacity by the nanosecond. Trapped between the unyielding friction between his legs and the voice vibrating through his entire body he could scarcely manage the sheer amount of input, too much, too good, too hot and lurid and _crude_ -

Until, at long last, as a third finger fought its brutish way home and opened him to his very limits, the wave finally broke. With a broken cry Zenyatta overloaded, conscious only of the all-encompassing pleasure seizing every inch of his body from his very core through to the tips of his fingers.

They were the first things of which Zenyatta became aware as he returned to himself, tingling pleasantly. Then came the release. As McCree withdrew his fingers, the unsteady twitch of his cunt sent slick pulsing down his thighs in hot and shameful abundance. Aftershocks.

Though it seemed he was not the only one still caught up in the afterglow.

Beside him, McCree raised his glistening fingertips, fingers still connected by the spider’s silk strands of Zenyatta’s arousal. His eyes were wide, almost dazed.

“I felt it,” he said slowly. “When you came. I _felt_ it, in my hand, like an electric shock. But it was _good_ , Zen!”   
  
“Omnic energy,” Zenyatta offered. Although the recalibration of his lower body still left him sore, he managed to resituate himself, arms wound around Jesse’s waist. “It is quite a mysterious force, even to me. Perhaps,” he added, “we should investigate it further.”

Finally tearing his eyes away from his prosthetic, Jesse turned and looked him straight in the optics.

“Zenyatta, I haven’t felt anythin’ in this hand since I lost it.” His voice was low and urgent, and almost serious enough to disguise the breathless hunger that lay beneath. “If we don’t do that again…”  
  
“We will.” Zenyatta paused, almost vulpine in the tilt of his head. “When you are well, of course.”

McCree laughed- then turned upon him the wild, wicked kind of smile that, regardless of the one-liner that followed, could have shattered the resolve of any man alive. “Darlin’. You’re all the motivation I need.”


End file.
